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Ipod Blinking Yellow

Cauls of Haw

Dedicated to Janet and Yoko

Do I possess my properties? A man asked to himself, hurtled his corpus and flensed it until his bones cracked.

By advertence

The fleet gestures dropped in the air dust left by the tin tan over his cheeks and arms. 

He pelted like a wild animal into a cage, in that small brothel room and peered anxiously at the mirror fixed on the closet’s door

While an Asian girl laid half-naked on a bed below the window

Slept hours ago, that made the time clever for her daydreams. 

 The man gazed at his yellowish square profile

His big glaces that cover a third of his face

His teeth, his fat bell

Through the mirror reflection.

He is probably aware of the gist that opposed him to the mist.

He might need a mulch to prevent his neuron’s erosion caused by worries and insomnia. An uncertainty principle might jot down evidence by miracle to ease his mind. 

 A qualm obtruded his wretched mind years ago. Now he is on the state of woes.

If yes, he continued his mute soliloquy remark

Do I have two bodies then, the one I born with and the one I hold?

Does it clever enough, the one I hold

To sponge my bad karmas or kind enough to supply my mind with tools?  He hitched his Toes up, his nose, stomach and neck. By doing this, he might see suddenly projected on The mirror, images from his long-term mem­ory that can rush the answer to come into his Frontal cortex. 

 A lash from his flesh, the one that does not have any underlying intrinsic reality Transformed in various ways and expressed different emotions, blocked his view. Nothing came into existence.

It extended his nuclei into synapses’ canal and provoked a brainstorm that broke his inner Silence. 

The sounds awoken his sleepy hypothalamus where 

He kept apart all secret things he is afraid about.  Even he noticed certain aspects of his Own nature there.  He cannot nudge their immutability.

The Asian girl

Moved slowly her body over the bed and traced on the white crispy clean sheet waves that slowly disappeared by the time, her gleam yellow body gave to read a shaved triangle

A flat belly colored with dragons’ tattoo.  She raised her head, heeded at the man in flesh. Stolid. She tugged at him:

You look like a wild cat from the front and a dragon in the backside. 

Her head felt down on the pillow again like an ice avalanche from a high mountain and Slept again 

Allowed the heroin to kill more neurons in her brain.

These words sounded like a wham from an old tale, the time animals spoke to man and God kept secret his own corpus. 

The man observed the fervid image that hinted the real. This time, no matter what he

Will say, the mirror might blink the reflex between what he saw and what the girl said. Moreover, that will not stop him to wan, even. 

It guzzled neurons.

 

He strove to understand and came up with the conclusion:

Everything has a potential to be real. 

He murmured that evidence, tapping his right toes on the floor to shape his true Conviction.

 

The man sat on the front part of the girl’s bed

Lulled to sleep by an anecdotic tale from the time he led his business in Tokyo.  Reminiscent crossed his senile memory. 

He sat on his office chair when Yagi poured for him a bowl of tea as

Usual, every third hour of a business day. 

This time, she sprinkled the bowl with a white Bloomed lotus flower on which

Yano virtual cutting head rested. 

 

As usual, she stood up, head half inclined, hands lined straight beside her hips, waiting until he finished sweeping his tea, to start other office duties.

The man virtually jolted by the scene, tugged without turning his head.

Yagi, what do I see in my bowl of tea? He hissed with rage that shook the window’s Glass.

No room for mishap of any kind. 

She felt riding a saddle and her temper began to creep.

You head my honor 

She giggled out with an ashamed attitude.

Splenetic.

The man blushed when he noticed a lump had taking shape beside his floating head.

I fire you. 

He hissed with a scolding behavior.

You too Iwaki, pointing the bookkeeper behind his big glaces. 

Do I pay you to keep my head floating over my tea bowl?  He jabbered.  Do something or you are all done.

His reaction melted several people in the office.

 

In silence, they froze their heart’s beats to escape what is inevitable.

The bookkeeper raised his head and uttered.

You had better think twice before fire me. I did not hocus your bowl of tea.  I did not even

Notice you drink so much tea a day.

 

The woman lost her pretty slenderness. 

She stood up like a salt sculpture, waiting to be

Vanished by the rain. 

 

The little gray cat came in

By the small kitchen door behind Yogi’s office 

After several missing days. 

 

He turned around her feet, apparently sick and

Frothed over her shoes. 

He gazed at her with a dizzy look as if he wanted to say, I know

The story.

 Do not worry. 

Your boss will only turn you green.

 

Since that day, things changed.  Askance, Yano searched for the flesh that projected the Illusion he became.  He clung at his idea and expected it to become a trifle. 

For now, after several years, he only huddled behind his shadow.

Not brave enough to step above and hold it. 

 

It is easy like that, he concluded 

Otherwise, it will bleat into my mind and bug me forever. 

 

Paranoia leaded Yano’s mind since that time. 

When the sun thrones in the middle of the sky, shadows disappear around my paces, he adduced.

Only a tin dark reflex logged in.

He cannot fake its illusion length to ease his mind a bit.

 

Time swayed what it owned and 

Wobbled what left behind into a fast pace to fool him.

 

Yano evanescent consciousness halved the haste at that specific moment and he can think About what he possesses without fear. 

Perhaps his real nature is a subatomic particle. 

For now

 

The thought shown up when he sat on Yagi’s unique chair.

The light dazzled and dimmed shadows with a sense of bliss.

When

The thought came elsewhere

In any shadow’s kingdom

He repressed it.

 

He never fought to keep it apart.

He only considered that is not forever

And thought can come alive again

The full moon in the bay area where he dwelled the weekend fishing Crabs, stole

His shadow.

Bright leaves insured that

Thefts are beside his inner body and.

Moon light cannot be trusted 

They must frighten it

He fought the night to get it back.

 

The ripples echoed far away his bleakness

Hove wind he can cease

He became lonesome while his shadow gone

Moreover, he kept secret the one he possesses.

 

Yano gazed at Yagi lain on her bed beside the lavabo, where needles and Afghan white Heroin powder squalled the omen.

 

Only silence came to log into her eyes

A long heavy silence that has too much to forget and

Not enough to recall. 

A thin parcel of happiness launched a purple light around her eyes’ corner.

While her mind hiked around the Planck time speed

 

Yano liked to catch “au vol” its reflex.   

There is no elementary evidence

He repeated several times to ease his own mind.

 

Yagi nervously spurred her legs over the bed and snored until the man awoken her.

What do you want? She hissed with an aggressive tone of voice. 

He grimed at her and said:

It is the right time for me to leave.

 

I cannot let you go like this, she emphasized. 

Do something.  Become a wild animal instead.  An elephant, perhaps you will have a Better look.

 

Moistened her hands became when she gripped his arm. 

Her eyes gazed at the fabric rested over the mirror.

 

Why the mirror’s reflex bends a sheen blank form?

What did you do to your image? She asked 

Where did you store it?  Is it vanished?

 

She left her mass of energy fluttered on the bed as a subatomic scale.  Then, her true

Nature soughed. 

It might re appear somewhere else

In its perfect state of uncertainty.

 

Yagi lost interest in temporality.  She perceived things faster than before. One might think a cosmic network monitored her brain.  What she spelt is not a third of what she understood.  No one can explain how she wangled that state.  She does not have stories to tell, memory to recall.  Everything remained the same, a geisha for her master during the week, a prostitute in the weekend. 

 

Her strength slowly disappeared.

She replaced it by fear and now by heroin.

Her divine beauty still bloomed at the age of twenty-eight. 

Stylized eyes

Proportional Asian breasts 

 

She still played koto, a soliloquy ritual for her 

Yano never paid attention.

He ignored everything about her. 

 

He never asked where she got the heroin or if she had affairs with other men. One a while he will say, can I call a doctor?  She acknowledged the truth about his attitude.  It does a matter.  At least, we shared a small portion of dignity left from the past I cannot even remember. 

 

When she played magic sounds that naked her soul

She stopped suddenly and designed a geisha make up to blur her feeling. 

 

She had flashed back from her time at Kyoto’s Hanamachi community member. 

She saw herself at eighteen in an ochayas- teahouse, where the maiko and the geiko entertained. 

The most acclaimed geisha in the tayu parade in Shimabara, she has been.

 

Yano did not like music. 

He did not understand it.

 

She only played for Yujii, an old poet of seventy-five years old who came to caress her Breasts three hours a day during the weekend and cover her body with fragrances while she played koto naked. 

He accordantly recited haiku poems that reflected Yagi mind in that specific moment.

This relationship became a mirror on which she can contemplate her mind’s speed. 

 

 

She traveled into note intervals and silence

Her tits erected under Yujii’s fingers

Wangled an oasis where crystal sounds awoke her sleepy desire like spring dragonflies. 

She never left the brothel room for even a day. 

The foods, the perfumes, the kimonos and the heroin, Yujii provided all. 

 

From him, she learned the story of a famous geisha who lived at the end of the Meiji Period around 1912.  She has been his first mistress at his young age in Kyoto.  Her music was as old as the poems he recited, he told her. 

 

Yagi never said a word in front of him.

Even lifted her head to show spleeny eyes. 

Always closed her right hemisphere 

Pasted the feeling into her gene. 

 

Yujii can see, under her white creamy face

The hypnotic purple light in her eyes. 

Silence dressed her warm body.

Yujii’s haiku peered at them

 

When Yagi died in autumn 1925

A rainy Friday at 2:00 P.M. full of dead leaves, gurgled under people feet

A page turned in Yujii and Yano life.

 

Yano and Yujii became friends since that day.  They bought a small shrine around Kyoto’s Hanamachi community; along Hanamikoji where they contemplated cherries blossomed in spring.  There, they displayed all her properties in the main room: her ash, her koto, her hairs, her kimonos, and the mirror. 

 

They came separately to

Honor her memory. 

Yujii, in silence, caressed the ash pot for three hours every Friday, Saturday and Sunday

Charmed by memory of crystal sounds and

Three poetry’s lines 

 

A garish energy came from the ash’s pot one day, enlightened him. 

He committed suicide three years later in the shrine, not like a Samurai to whom he is an authentic descent, but by sniffing the Yagi’s ash, the day he noticed nothing is missing even her.

 

Yano always visited the shrine without any particular intention. 

He did not realize time had passed and

Yagi is no longer alive.  He came and sat on the Yagi’s bed as usual

Kept the mirror covered and blocked his ears with wax. 

He forgot about his shadow and

What he possesses.

He rested there.

                                                                  **  **  ** **

 

 

 

About the Author

Roland Bastien is a multimedia artist, composer (new music) and poet. He started his career in Montreal’s Avant-Garde scene in 1979. His works were performed at Tangente Danse Actuelle, vehicule-Art, the temples for new ideas in performance at the time, also Vancouver (Western front) , Toronto, (PowerPlant) New-York and Italy (Venice, Milano) . He won the overall prize in February 2006 at The fourth International poetry Competition for his poem ‘Mother’.The American Poets Society has published his poems in Reflections, a compilation ISBN 0-9743429-6-3 email: roland_rimsky@yahoo.com

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